


Dr. Watson

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson didn't blog anymore.<br/>It's not that he didn't have anything to say...<br/>But he just couldn't say it, not now. Not now he was gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. Watson

John Watson didn't blog anymore.  
It wasn't that he didn't have anything to say. Oh no. He had lots of things to say.  
But he just couldn't say them. Even less put them on the Internet.  
So, with one last post proclaiming his friends innocence, he closed the window containing the website his physiatrist had recommended, and never went on it again.  
Everything reminded him too much of Sherlock. And yet, he couldn't bear to get rid of it.  
Like the science set, all twisting tubes and a microscope that weighed as much as the rest combined. Mrs Hudson was going to get rid of it, give it away somewhere so she said. John had asked for it himself, saying he'd find some use for it.  
A blatant lie.  
It was still sat in the box, trying to escape over the edges as it gathered dust.

There was one thing of Sherlock's he still kept.  
His phone.

It had been retrieved from the roof of St Barts hospital, the day Sherlock fell to his death.  
Battered, scratched from where it had been tossed aside by a dead man.  
It was the perfect sum of how Sherlock had looked, that day.  
It was still on call to John's phone when he'd been handed it, Sherlock's shaking hands failing to sever the connection between them.  
And so he'd sat and listened to his voice echo down a receiverless phone, just for a while, until he ran out of complaints to make and was forced to end the call.  
That had been painful. That was when the tears first started to fall.  
After the adrenaline, the anger came slow, silent tears as he sat waiting for Molly to complete her autopsy.

Then the phone sat. Sat on the desk.  
Through the funeral. Which had been one of the hardest days of his life.  
Molly stood next to him, Mrs Hudson on the other side crying softly. Molly had stared, as the words were spoken, the coffin lowered. As his friend disappeared beneath the earth.  
Lestrade had been there. Hanging back in the shadows as if, in some way, he would not be welcome there. As if, maybe he should have done more.

One day John went shopping, as he'd always done. He hadn't even realised he'd texted Sherlock until the phone announced it's presence when he got back.  
'Gone to Tesco, what do you need? JW.'  
He couldn't breathe. He just sat on the steps and cried until he heard Mrs Hudson leave the shop next door.  
They visited the grave together, still, shiny black marble. Maybe he'd been hoping Sherlock would be there, tell him it wasn't real... But the marble still shone his own reflection back.  
"Stop this..."  
Pull yourself together John.  
He limped away, got a taxi home. The phone never left his pocket after that.

Eventually he called it. Just to hear the detectives voicemail, in that same plain voice he would always use.  
Bored.  
It still made him smile.  
He pretended he was conversing sometimes, leaving little voice mails.  
Just stupid little things.  
He couldn't pluck up the courage to tell him...  
He'd never tell anyone, not now.

The good days slowly took over, but the phone still stayed with him. He'd still text little things and hear it beep in his pocket.  
Then he needed to face reality.  
Gradually he filled the inbox. Just with stupid stuff, how his day had been, what do you fancy for dinner?, it's your turn to go shopping.

Then one day he texted the same old things. They were out of milk.  
Silence rang out.  
The phone was gone.  
That little piece of Sherlock had vanished. Lost, stolen.  
He was upset at first. But then he began texting again.  
He never called, he couldn't bear it if Sherlock's voice didn't greet him at the other end of the phone. But he could still text.  
'Molly misses you.'  
I miss you...

And most days. That's enough.

Most days the phone buzzes in a pocket. It rings out to voice mail and a voice seeps through silk and wool out to the ear of it's owner.  
There's silence for a moment. A breath.  
"Stop this. Jesus... It's been nearly a year. My therapist says I'm getting better now, but I know that... I'm not Sherlock. Just stop it." John swallows, lets out a shaky breath and the line goes dead. A pale hand slips the phone out on it's prison and places it on the desk in front of the figure.  
It stays there, under a fixed gaze that is neither bored nor patience until it at last lights up, begins moving across the table with the notice of an incoming text.  
'It's your turn to do the shopping Sherlock. JW.'  
The eyes shift, watch the rain drip down a window pane. The eyes look out across London, trying to pick out Baker Street from it's seemingly infinite vastness.  
He knows where it is. Of course he does. The little flat, the graffiti and posters that were gradually fading as the hype vanished.  
How novel. 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'.  
Surprising.  
He stares out and imagines John on that day, almost a year ago, stares across the grey and tries to pick him out from the crowd.  
He turns over the phone he pick pocketed from John, slips it back into the darkness of his coat.  
And most days. That's enough.


End file.
